Page 5 of We Used To Be Magic

‘AVWModels. I mean – in New York, at least. Bradshaw-Slater back in England.’

‘Heavy hitters.’ She whistles. ‘You heading to London next week?’

‘Uh-huh. Not sure about Milan and Paris. It’s all a bit … up in the air.’

‘I get that.’ She nods, moving in with the concealer. ‘My schedule this week is a nightmare.’

‘Are you doing a lot of shows?’

‘Plus private bookings. What about you?’

‘Oh, uh – I’ve got a few lined up,’ I say, not wanting to jinx myself by admitting the actual number. ‘My agent warned me that they might not all pan out.’

‘Sure. You homesick yet?’

I blink at her reflection, less startled by the question than the realisation that my answer is no. I haven’t had the chance to be. Castings take place all day and all over the city, and it’s my responsibility to hit up as many as humanly possible. I only ever stop to scarf down a street pretzel or double check my directions, and when I get back to the model apartment, I’m usually too tired to shower, let alone pine for theBBC.

‘Not yet,’ I manage. She smiles knowingly, proffering a small tube of mascara. I take it from her, nonplussed.

‘Most girls prefer to do it themselves,’ she explains. ‘Just a tiny bit. Upper lashes only.’

‘Cool.’ I nod, hoping that she won’t notice my trembling hands. This show’s call time was 6 a.m. and the sheer feat of regaining consciousness that early makes me nauseous. I was in such a daze when I left that I got on the wrong subway train – then, in my rush to get off, I left my book behind. It was a paperback that I’d picked up at the airport calledThe Lonely City,which felt apt, I guess.

Anyway. I figured I’d find some food when I got here but an assistant grabbed me for a refitting the moment I arrived, and I’ve been feeling shaky ever since. I manage to apply the mascara without any mishaps, at least, but when I turn to hand it back toNicole, I see that she’s flagging down a flushed-looking girl with a ‘VOLUNTEER’ lanyard around her neck.

‘Can you grab us a pastry or something? And a black coffee?’ she asks. The girl nods seriously, and zips off.

‘The pastry is yours but the coffee isallllmine,’ Nicole says mildly, turning back to the mirror and picking up a pot of blush. ‘The last thing you need right now is caffeine.’

‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. She meets my eye.

‘You’ve got to look after yourself,’ she tells me. ‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Eighteen,’ she echoes. ‘So you know it’s up to you now, right?’

I press my lips together and nod, attempting to look determined. I don’t want to make obvious to everyone else what Nicole so clearly suspects– that I’m entirely, hopelessly, out of my depth.

Four months ago, a stranger walked up to me, handed me a piece of card and changed everything. I was in London to visit a university that I wasn’t sure I wanted to attend – I wasn’t sure about uni at all, actually, so I guess it felt like the universe was intervening on my behalf. Now I’m on the other side of the planet, getting paid to wear beautiful things. It’s unreal. A crazy, consumerist fairy tale, and I want so badly for it to somehow become my real life. But it doesn’tfeelreal, and I worry that that’s because I’m not actually any good at this. That I never will be, and very soon everyone is going to realise that they made a terrible mistake.

‘Hey,’ Nicole says softly, tugging me back to reality. I meet her eyes, which are startlingly blue, and she smiles. ‘If you’re here, you’re here for a reason,’ she says. ‘Okay?’

Ten minutes later, I’m repeating those words in my head like a mantra.I’m here for a reason. I’m here for a reason. I’m—

‘JesusChrist.’ The girl next to me groans. ‘These shoes are killing me. I’m a size eight and these aresixes.’

I glance over and sure enough, her feet are spilling out of the strappy sandals she’s wearing. I’m lucky enough to be wearing too-big boots with a handful of tissues stuffed into the toes, but still, I find it mystifying that in an industry where our measurements are more important than our names, we’re so rarely given shoes that fit.

‘They’re fine,’ the stylist says dismissively. ‘You’ll only be wearing them for five minutes.’

The girl scowls. The stylist doesn’t notice, too busy fussing with the voluminous bow collar of my dress. It’s burgundy silk, paired with a tight black belt to match the boots. There’s a leather trench coat draped over my shoulders and heavy gold earrings dangling to my neck. I’m wilting under the weight, and the second that I finish my circuit of the runway I’ve got to strip it all off and dive into a velvet three-piece suit in approximately one minute flat.

I think I might have fainted if Nicole hadn’t made me eat. The belt, the stress, the heat – it’s swelteringly hot in here, here being an old warehouse overlooking the Hudson River. They chose a sparse, industrial setting to contrast with the opulence of the collection, apparently, but it’s miles away from my next show in Bowery, which starts in an hour’s time. I have no idea if I can get there in time. Or what happens if I don’t.

‘You’re done. Go get your picture taken,’ the stylist says, pointing me towards a photographer. Said photographer is tall and wan with pale brown hair, artfully mussed. He says nothing as he waves me into a group shot with three other girls, none of whom I recognise. We all bunch together, though, cheesing like we’re best friends.

‘Okay,’ the photographer says eventually, an apparent dismissal. Next thing I know, a woman with a clipboard has taken my arm to guide me towards the line of girls beside the stage. She consults said clipboard, places me between two of them, then walks off without a single word.

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